


By Any Other Name

by SinnamonSpider



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Underage Relationship(s), M/M, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Stanford, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 00:22:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9467165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnamonSpider/pseuds/SinnamonSpider
Summary: When his brother shows up in his kitchen after four years, Sam struggles between who he was with Dean and who he has become without him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I keep starting these out as 500 word drabbles and they take on a life of their own. Oh well. Comments and kudos are always appreciated.
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply.

"You're not hearing me, Sammy."

There it was. Dean keeps talking, but Sam's ears have filled with a roaring noise. His body tenses, coiled like a spring. He swallows and his throat is suddenly dry. He curls his hand into a fist to stop the tremors. He's too full of adrenaline, from hearing a noise in the middle of the night, from the tussle with a dark stranger who turned out to be his brother, from the doom-laden words dropping like bombs from Dean's lips. And, if he's being honest, he's been waiting for this since he realized that it was Dean pinning him to the floor of his kitchen. When those bottle-green eyes had met his and that lopsided grin had come clear in the dim light, Sam felt his stomach tighten in dreaded anticipation. He'd breathed easier when Dean had spoken. "Whoa, easy there, tiger."

No one has called him Sammy in four years. No one.

None of his fellow students had blinked when he introduced himself as Sam. None of them ever tacked on those two extra letters that dredged up too many memories of a life he was trying to bury.

He'd been Sammy for so long, when it was just him and Dad and Dean. Eventually Dad had dropped the nickname, especially when the tension between them had gotten heavier and heavier. But Dean had never let it go. Dean was never one to let anything go.

But he'd had to let go, once, and Sam can remember, so clearly, the last time anyone has called him Sammy.

_It's early morning, so early that it's basically still night, the moon and stars still out and only the faintest hint of pink beginning to paint the edges of the sky. The bus depot is quiet, the next bus still half an hour from leaving._

_They're curled together on a bench in the frigid air, far past caring what anyone might think or say. Sam's legs are tucked over Dean's lap, his head on Dean's shoulder and it's really quite absurd, because they're both over six feet and Sam is seventeen and they haven't cuddled like this for years; at least not in public. But the bus to California leaves in forty minutes and Sam is still quaking from the aftermath of the blowout with Dad and Dean is sick with the realization that this is finally it, Sammy's actually leaving, and they cling to each other like they did when they were little kids, only there's no comfort to be had here, just aches and pains and sorrow._

_There's too much to be said, so much that they can't bring themselves to say anything at all. The entire time goes by in silence, with only the heavy pounding of their hearts and breaths that catch in their throats._

_Soon, so soon, the bus is here and the sky is lightening and suddenly they both want to talk, to get everything out so they talk in broken half-sentences over each other, but not a single word is missed._

_"Dean, it's not about you, it's never -"_

_"If you need anything you let me -"_

_"I just have to, or I'll go crazy -"_

_Dean cuts him off and grips the hair on either side of Sam's head, bringing their foreheads together. "You write," he says softly. "Write, call, send smoke signals. I gotta hear from you, man, even if it's just once a month." His voice catches and his next words are cracked and broken and hoarse. "Don't forget me. Don't forget me, Sammy."_

_The driver is opening the door of the bus and people are shuffling on and their lips meet once, twice, slow-burning and achingly bittersweet. Then Sam is up the steps and can't bear to look back. They know, they both know that they won't write or call or anything. Sam will try, at first, but it hurts too much and it'll be better - not easier, not less painful - if they just let it go._

_Sam is sitting in his seat with a look so distressed that the driver pauses on his way through the bus and claps a hand on his shoulder with a well-meaning "Alright there, son?" and Sam can only jerk his head in an approximation of a nod. He knows that if he looks out the window he'll see Dean standing there, but he doesn't dare, 'cause if he does he'll be out of his seat and off the bus and into Dean's arms and he just can't do that. So he grips the armrest and tries to keep the greasy breakfast they'd had from burning up his esophagus._

_Sam doesn't see it, but Dean stands in the parking lot until it's empty. His chest feels weirdly empty, until he reasons that it makes sense, because his heart's on the bus that has just disappeared around the bend in the road. He climbs into the Impala, puts the key in the ignition, rests his hands on the steering wheel, and breaks down into tears for the first time since he was twelve years old._

Sam is jolted from his reverie back into the present. He knows he's had been arguing the whole time, dragging up Dad and Mom and the general fucked-up-ness of their upbringing, but it doesn't seem to matter, because they're behind the Impala, the hidden compartment propped open with a sawed-off and Dean is telling him about New Orleans. He's not looking at Sam, so there's a chance to study his face, half in shadow. He looks different then he did that day at the bus stop. Four years had given him the face he would wear into full manhood. His mid-twenties had sharpened his jaw. Worry for Dad had carved the faintest creases into his brow. He's concerned, serious and focused, but covering it with his light humour and Sam knows it's because they've forgotten how to do this, forgotten how to talk to each other.

Not much else has changed. Sam could swear he recognizes the shirt under Dad's - Dean's - leather jacket. He's a bit more filled out, but he's never been small. He's lithe and lethal like he's always been, since Sam can remember.

"I need your help, Sammy."

The name cuts through him like a knife. Dean is throwing it out so casually, and he's not Sammy anymore. He hasn't been for a long time. And it's nothing to do with age or distance or the fact that he's never been fond of it.

Sammy was his name back when they had had it all. Back when they had shared everything, not just clothes and motel rooms, but breath and kisses and more. Sammy was his name back when they were fumbling in the back seat of the Impala, when they snuck into the woods to pull each other close, when their heated gasps broke the silence of the night and it didn't matter that Dad was in the bed next to them.

Sammy was his name back when Dean loved him and he loved Dean and there was nothing for either of them but each other.

Now there was nothing for them at all.

But before he realizes it, he's packing a bag and kissing Jess goodbye and swinging into the passenger seat of the car. The leather welcomes him back, cradling him the way Dean used to, and he wonders who has taken his other old spots in Dean's day-to-day, but he doesn't dare to ask because he was the one who left, and he's too scared of the answer. Then they're pulling away, leaving Palo Alto and Jess and the life Sam has so carefully crafted for himself out of the ashes.

Dean grins over at him, already looking a little less worried and careworn and un-Dean, and claps a hand on his shoulder. "Just like old times, huh Sammy?" and Sam nods along, but there's a sinking feeling in his stomach and he knows it won't be any easier to stop being Sammy this time. But Dean is cranking the radio and the car is rumbling along the highway and if he squints his eyes a little, they're sixteen and twenty again and De and Sammy again, and there's a whole weekend to savour before he loses his identity once more.

He's spent the last four years trying to forget Sammy.

But he's never been able to forget Dean.


End file.
